from "Memoirs of a Sportsman,"
translated by Isabel F. Hapgood, New York, Charles
Scribner's Sons, 1903. Scanned by James Rusk.

The District Doctor

by Ivan Turgenev

ONE day, in autumn, on my way home from the
distant fields, I caught cold, and was taken ill.
Fortunately, the fever overtook me in the
county-town, in the hotel. I sent for the doctor.
Half an hour later, the district physician made
his appearance, a man of short stature, thin and
black-haired. He prescribed for me the customary
sudorific, ordered the application of
mustard-plasters, very deftly tucked my five-ruble
bank-note under his cuff,--but emitted a dry cough
and glanced aside as he did so,--and was on the
very verge of going off about his own affairs, but
somehow got to talking and remained. The fever
oppressed me; I foresaw a sleepless night, and was
glad to chat with the kindly man. Tea was served.
My doctor began to talk. He was far from a stupid
young fellow, and expressed himself vigorously and
quite entertainingly. Strange things happen in
the world: you may live a long time, and on
friendly terms, with one man, and never once speak
frankly from your soul with him; with another you
hardly manage to make acquaintance--and behold:
either you have blurted out to him your most
secret thoughts, as though you were at confession,
or he has blurted out his to you. I know not how
I won the confidence of my new friend,--only,
without rhyme or reason, as the saying is, he
"took" and told me about a rather
remarkable occurrence; and now I am going to
impart his narrative to the indulgent reader. I
shall endeavour to express myself in the
physician's words.

"You are not acquainted,"--he began,
in a weak and quavering voice (such is the effect
of unadulterated Beryozoff snuff):--"you are
not acquainted with the judge here, Pavel Lukitch
Myloff, are you? . . . . . You are not?
.. . . . . Well, never mind." (He cleared
his throat and wiped his eyes.) "Well, then,
please to observe that the affair happened--to be
accurate--during the Great Fast, in the very
height of the thaw. I was sitting with him at his
house, our judge's, and playing preference. Our
judge is a nice man, and fond of playing
preference. All of a sudden" (my doctor
frequently employed that expression: "all of
a sudden") "I am told: 'A man is asking
for you.' 'What does he want?'-- said I. They tell
me: 'He has brought a note--it must be from a sick
person.'--'Give me the note,'--said I. And so it
proved to be from a sick person. . . . . .
Well, very good,--that's our bread and butter, you
understand. . . . . . And this was what was
the matter: the person who wrote to me was a
landed proprietress, a widow; she says: 'My
daughter is dying, come for the sake of our Lord
God, and horses have been sent for you.' Well, and
all that is of no consequence. . . . . But
she lives twenty versts from town, night is
falling, and the roads are such, that--faugh! And
she herself was the poorest of the poor, I
couldn't expect to receive more than two rubles,
[note] and
even that much was doubtful; and, in all
probability, I should be obliged to take a bolt of
crash-linen and some scraps or other. However,
you understand, duty before everything. All of a
sudden, I hand over my cards to Kalliopin, and set
off homeward. I look: a wretched little
peasant-cart is standing in front of my porch;
peasant-horses,--pot-bellied, extremely
pot-bellied,--the hair on them a regular matted
felt; and the coachman is sitting hatless, by way
of respect. Well, thinks I to myself: evidently,
brother, thy masters don't eat off gold. . . .
.
..You are pleased to laugh, but I can tell you a
poor man, like myself, takes everything into
consideration. . . . . If the coachman sits
like a prince, and doesn't doff his cap, and grins
in his beard to boot, and waggles his whip, you
may bet boldly on getting a couple of bank-bills!
But, in this case, I see that the matter does not
smack of that. However, thought I to myself, it
can't be helped: duty before everything. I catch
up the most indispensable remedies, and set out.
Will you believe it, we barely managed to drag
ourselves to our goal. The road was hellish:
brooks, snow, mud, water-washed gullies; for, all
of a sudden, a dam had burst--alas!
Notwithstanding, I got there. The house is tiny,
with a straw-thatched roof. The windows are
illuminated: which signifies, that they are
expecting me. An old woman comes out to receive
me,--such a dignified old woman, in a mob-cap;
'Save her,' says she, 'she is dying.' 'Pray don't
worry,' I say to her.
. . . . . . .'Where is the patient?'--'Here,
please come this way.'--I look: 'tis a neat little
room, in the corner a shrine-lamp, on the bed a
girl of twenty years, unconscious. She is fairly
burning with heat, she breathes heavily:--'tis
fever. There are two other young girls present,
her sisters,--thoroughly frightened, in
tears.--'See there,' say they, 'yesterday she was
perfectly well, and ate with appetite: this
morning she complained of her head, and toward
evening, all of a sudden, she got into this
condition.' . . . . I said again: 'Pray don't
worry,'--you know, the doctor is bound to say
that, -- and set to work. I let blood, ordered
the application of mustard-plasters, prescribed a
potion. In the meantime, I looked and looked at
her, and do you know:--well, upon my word, I never
before had seen such a face . . .
.. a beauty, in one word! I fairly go
to pieces with compassion. Such pleasing
features, eyes. . . . . . Well, thank God,
she quieted down; the perspiration broke out, she
seemed to regain consciousness, cast a glance
around her, smiled, passed her hand over her face.
. . . Her sisters bent over her, and inquired:
'What ails thee?'--'Nothing,'--says she, and
turned away . .
. . . . I look . . and lo, she has fallen
asleep. 'Well,' I say, 'now the patient must be
left in peace.' So we all went out of the room on
tiptoe; only the maid remained, in case she should
be needed. And in the drawing-room, the samovar
was already standing on the table, and there was
Jamaica rum also: in our business, we cannot get
along without it. They gave me tea, and begged me
to spend the night there. . . . I consented:
what was the use of going away now! The old woman
kept moaning. 'What's the matter with you?' said
I: 'she'll live, pray do not feel uneasy, and the
best thing you can do is to get some rest
yourself: it's two o'clock.'--'But will you give
orders that I am to be awakened, if anything
should happen?'--'I will, I will.'--The old woman
went off, and the girls also betook themselves to
their own room; they made up a bed for me in the
drawing-room. So I lay down,--but I couldn't get
to sleep,--and no wonder! I seemed to be
fretting over something. I couldn't get my sick
girl out of my mind. At last, I could endure it
no longer, and all of a sudden, I got up: I
thought: 'I'll go and see how the patient is
getting along.' Her bedroom adjoined the
drawing-room. Well, I rose, and opened the door
softly,--and my heart began to beat violently. I
took a look: the maid was fast asleep, with her
mouth open, and even snoring, the beast! and the
sick girl was lying with her face toward me, and
throwing her arms about, the poor thing! I went
up to her. . . All of a sudden, she opened her
eyes, and fixed them on me! . . . . . 'Who
is this? Who is this?'--I was
disconcerted.--'Don't be alarmed, madam,' said I:
'I'm the doctor, I have come to see how you are
feeling.'--'You are the doctor?'--'Yes, the
doctor. . . . . Your mamma sent to the town
for me; we have bled you, madam; now, please to
lie quiet, and in a couple of days, God willing,
we'll have you on your feet again.'--'Akh, yes,
yes, doctor, don't let me die . . . . please,
please don't!'--'What makes you say that, God
bless you!'--'Her fever is starting up again,' I
thought to myself. I felt her pulse: it was the
fever, sure enough. She looked at me,--then, all
of a sudden, she seized my hand.--'I'll tell you
why I don't want to die, I'll tell you, I'll tell
you . . . . now we are alone; only, if you
please, you mustn't let anybody know . . . .
listen!' . . . . I bent down; she brought her
lips to my very ear, her hair swept my cheek,--I
confess that my head reeled, --and began to
whisper. . . . . . I could understand
nothing. . .
.. . . Akh, why, she was delirious. . . . .
She whispered and whispered, and very rapidly at
that, and not in Russian, finished, shuddered,
dropped her head back on the pillow, and menaced
me with her finger.--'See that you tell no one,
doctor.' . . . Somehow or other, I contrived to
soothe her, gave her a drink, waked up the maid,
and left the room."

Here the doctor took snuff frantically, and
grew torpid for a moment.

"But, contrary to my
expectation,"--he went on,--"the patient
was no better on the following day. I cogitated,
and cogitated, and all of a sudden, I decided to
remain, although other patients were expecting me.
. .
.. But, you know, that cannot be neglected:
your practice suffers from it. But, in the first
place, the sick girl was, really, in a desperate
condition; and, in the second place, I must tell
the truth, I felt strongly attracted to her.
Moreover, the whole family pleased me. Although
they were not wealthy people, yet their culture
was, I may say, rare. .
. . . Their father had been a learned man, a
writer; he had died in poverty, of course, but had
managed to impart a splendid education to his
children; he had also left behind him many books.
Whether it was because I worked so zealously over
the sick girl, or for other reasons, at all
events, I venture to assert that they became as
fond of me as though I had been a relative . . .
.. . In the meantime, the thaw had reduced the roads to a frightful
condition: all communications were, so to speak,
utterly cut off . . . . The sick girl did not
get well . . . day after day, day after day. .
. . But so, sir . . . . then, sir . . . ."
(The doctor paused for a while).--"Really, I
do not know how to state it to you, sir . .
." (Again he took snuff, grunted, and
swallowed a mouthful of tea.) "I will tell
you, without circumlocution,--my patient . . .
. anyhow .
. . . well, either she fell in love with me . .
. . . or, no, she didn't exactly fall in love
with me .
.. . but, anyway . . . really, how shall I put it? . . ." (The doctor
dropped his eyes, and flushed crimson.)

"No,"--he went on with
vivacity:--" she didn't fall in love with me!
One must, after all, estimate one's self at one's
true value. She was a cultivated girl, clever,
well-read, and I had forgotten even my Latin,
completely, I may say. So far as my figure is
concerned" (the doctor surveyed himself with
a smile), "also, I have nothing to boast of,
apparently. But the Lord God didn't distort me
into a fool, either: I won't call white black; I
understand a thing or two myself. For example, I
understood very well indeed that Alexandra
Andreevna-- her name was Alexandra Andreevna--did
not feel love for me, but, so to speak, a friendly
inclination, respect, something of that sort.
Although she herself, possibly, was mistaken on
that point, yet her condition was such, as you can
judge for yourself
. . . . . However,"--added the doctor, who had
uttered all these disjointed speeches without
stopping to take breath, and with obvious
embarrassment:--" I have strayed from the
subject a bit, I think. . . . So you will not
understand anything . . . . . but here now,
with your permission, I'll tell you the whole
story in due order."

He finished his glass of tea, and began to
talk in a more composed voice.

"Well, then, to proceed, sir. My patient
grew constantly worse, and worse, and worse. You
are not a medical man, my dear sir; you cannot
comprehend what takes place in the soul of a
fellow-being, especially when he first begins to
divine that his malady is conquering him. What
becomes of his self-confidence! All of a sudden,
you grow inexpressibly timid. It seems to you,
that you have forgotten everything you ever knew,
and that the patient does not trust you and that
others are beginning to observe that you have lost
your wits, and communicate the symptoms to you
unwillingly, gaze askance at you, whisper together
. . . . . . eh, 'tis an evil plight! But
there certainly must be a remedy for this malady,
you think, if you could only find it. Here now,
isn't this it? You try it--no that's not it! You
don't give the medicine time to act properly . .
. . now you grasp at this, now at that. You take
your prescription-book, --it certainly must be
there, you think. To tell the truth, you
sometimes open it at haphazard: perchance Fate,
you think to yourself . . . . . But, in the
meanwhile, the person is dying; and some other
physician might have saved him. A consultation is
necessary, you say: 'I will not assume the
responsibility.' And what a fool you seem under
such circumstances! Well, and you'll learn to
bear it patiently, in course of time you won't
mind it. The man dies--it is no fault of yours:
you have followed the rules. But there's another
torturing thing about it: you behold blind
confidence in you, and you yourself feel that you
are not capable of helping. Well then, that was
precisely the sort of confidence that Alexandra
Andreevna's whole family had in me:--and they
forgot to think that their daughter was in danger.
I, also, on my side, assured them that it was all
right, while my soul sank into my heels. To crown
the calamity, the thaw and breaking up of the
roads were so bad, that the coachman would travel
whole days at a time in quest of medicine. And I
never left the sick-chamber, I couldn't tear
myself away, you know, I related ridiculous little
anecdotes, and played cards with her. I sat up
all night. My old woman thanked me with tears;
but I thought to myself: 'I don't deserve your
gratitude.' I will confess to you
frankly,--there's no reason why I should
dissimulate now,--I had fallen in love with my
patient. And Alexandra Andreevna had become
attached to me: she would let no one but me enter
the room. She would begin to chat with me, and
would interrogate me--where I had studied, how I
lived, who were my parents, whom did I visit? And
I felt that she ought not to talk, but as for
prohibiting her, positively, you know, I couldn't
do it. I would clutch my head:--'What art thou
doing, thou villain?'--But then, she would take my
hand, and hold it, and gaze at me, gaze long, very
long, turn away, sigh, and say: 'How kind you
are!' Her hands were so hot, her eyes were big and
languishing.--'Yes,' she would say,--'you are a
good man, you are not like our neighbours. . .
. no, you are not that sort. . . . How is it
that I have never known you until now!' --'Calm
yourself, Alexandra Andreevna,'--I would say. .
. . 'I assure you, I feel I do not know how I
have merited . . . . only, compose yourself,
for God's sake . . . . everything will be all
right, you will get well.'--And yet, I must
confess to you," added the doctor, bending
forward, and elevating his eyebrows:--"that
they had very little to do with the neighbours,
because the lower sort were not their equals, and
pride prevented their becoming acquainted with the
rich ones. As I have told you, it was an
extremely cultured family:--and, so, you know, I
felt flattered. She would take her medicine from
no hands but mine . . . she would sit up
half-way, the poor girl, with my assistance, take
it, and look at me . . . . and my heart would
fairly throb. But, in the meantime, she grew
worse and worse: 'She will die,' I thought, 'she
will infallibly die.' Will you believe it, I felt
like lying down in the grave myself: but her
mother and sisters were watching, and looking me
in the eye .
. . . and their confidence disappeared.

"'What is it? What is the
matter?'--'Nothing, ma'am; 'tis all right,
ma'am!'--but it wasn't all right, I had merely
lost my head! Well, sir, one night I was sitting
alone once more, beside the sick girl. The maid
was sitting in the room also, and snoring with all
her might. . . . Well, there was no use in
being hard on the unfortunate maid: she was
harassed enough. Alexandra Andreevna had been
feeling very badly all the evening; she was
tortured by the fever. She kept tossing herself
about clear up to midnight; at last, she seemed to
fall asleep; at all events, she did not stir, but
lay quietly. The shrine-lamp was burning in front
of the holy picture in the corner. I was sitting,
you know, with drooping head, and dozing also.
All of a sudden, I felt exactly as though some one
had nudged me in the ribs. I turned round. . .
O Lord, my God! Alexandra Andreevna was staring
at me with all her eyes . . . her lips parted,
her cheeks fairly blazing. -- 'What is the matter
with you?'--'Doctor, surely I am dying?'--'God
forbid!'--'No, doctor, no; please don't tell me
that I shall recover . .
.. . don't tell me . . . if you only
knew . . . listen, for God's sake, don't
conceal my condition from me!'--and she breathed
very fast.--'If I know for certain that I must die
. . . . I will tell you everything,
everything!'--'For heaven's sake, Alexandra
Andreevna!'--'Listen, I haven't been asleep at
all, you see; I've been watching you this long
while. . . . for God's sake . . . I believe
in you, you are a kind man, you are an honest man;
I adjure you, by all that is holy on earth--tell
me the truth! If you only knew how important it
is to me. . . Doctor, tell me, for God's sake,
am I in danger?'--'What shall I say to you,
Alexandra Andreevna, for mercy's sake!'--'For
God's sake, I beseech you!'--'I cannot conceal
from you, Alexandra Andreevna, the fact that you
really are in danger, but God is merciful . . .
.'--'I shall die, I shall die!' . .
.. . And she seemed to be glad, her face became
so cheerful; I was frightened.--'But don't be
afraid, don't be afraid, death does not terrify me
in the least.'--All of a sudden, she raised
herself up and propped herself on her elbow.--'Now
. . . . well, now I can tell you that I am
grateful to you with all my soul, that you are a
kind, good man, that I love you.' . . . . I
stared at her like a crazy man; dread fell upon
me, you know. . . 'Do you hear?--I love you!' .
. . . 'Alexandra Andreevna, how have I deserved
this!'--'No no, you don't understand me . . . .
thou dost not understand me.' . . . . And all
of a sudden, she stretched out her arms, clasped
my head, and kissed me. . . . Will you believe
it, I came near shrieking aloud . . . . . I
flung myself on my knees, and hid my head in the
pillow. She was silent; her fingers trembled on
my hair; I heard her weeping. I began to comfort
her, to reassure her . . . . to tell the
truth, I really do not know what I said to
her.--'You will waken the maid, Alexandra
Andreevna,' I said to her. . . 'I thank you .
. . . believe me .
.. . . calm yourself.'--'Yes, enough, enough,' she repeated. 'God be with
them all; well, they will wake; well, they will
come--it makes no difference: for I shall die. .
. . . But why art thou timid, what dost thou
fear? raise thy head. . . . Can it be myself?
. . . . in that case, forgive me,'--'Alexandra
Andreevna, what are you saying? . . . . I
love you, Alexandra Andreevna.'--She looked me
straight in the eye, and opened her arms.--'Then
embrace me.' . . I will tell you frankly: I
don't understand why I did not go crazy that
night. I was conscious that my patient was
killing herself; I saw that she was not quite
clear in her head; I understood, also, that had
she not thought herself on the brink of death, she
would not have thought of me; for, you may say
what you like, 'tis a terrible thing, all the
same, to die at the age of twenty, without having
loved any one: that is what was tormenting her,
you see; that is why she, in her despair, clutched
even at me,--do you understand now? But she did
not release me from her arms.--'Spare me,
Alexandra Andreevna, and spare yourself also,' I
said.--'Why should I?' she said. 'For I must die,
you know.' . . . She kept repeating this
incessantly.--'See here, now; if I knew that I
would recover, and become an honest young lady
again, I should be ashamed, actually ashamed . .
. . but as it is, what does it matter?'--'But who
told you that you were going to die?'--'Eh, no,
enough of that, thou canst not deceive me, thou
dost not know how to lie; look at thyself.'--'You
will live, Alexandra Andreevna; I will cure you.
We will ask your mother's blessing on our
marriage. . . . We will unite ourselves in the
bonds. . . We shall be happy.'--'No, no, I have
taken your word for it, I must die . . . .
thou hast promised me . . . thou hast told me
so.' . . . This was bitter to me, bitter for
many reasons. And you can judge for yourself,
what trifling things happen: they seem to be
nothing, yet they hurt. She took it into her head
to ask me what my name was,--not my surname, but
my baptismal name. My ill-luck decreed that it
should be Trifon. Yes, sir, yes, sir; Trifon,
Trifon Ivanovitch. Everybody in the house
addressed me as doctor. There was no help for it,
I said: 'Trifon, madam.' She narrowed her eyes,
shook her head, and whispered something in
French,--okh, yes, and it was something bad, and
then she laughed, and in an ugly way too. Well,
and I spent the greater part of the night with her
in that manner. In the morning, I left the room,
as though I had been a madman; I went into her
room again by daylight, after tea. My God, my
God! She was unrecognisable: corpses have more
colour when they are laid in their coffins. I
swear to you, by my honour, I do not understand
now, I positively do not understand, how I
survived that torture. Three days, three nights
more did my patient linger on . . . . and what
nights they were! What was there that she did not
say to me! . . . . And, on the last night,
just imagine,--I was sitting beside her, and
beseeching one thing only of God: 'Take her to
Thyself, as speedily as may be, and me along with
her.' . . . All of a sudden, the old mother
bursts into the room . . . . . I had already
told her, on the preceding day, that there was but
little hope, that the girl was in a bad way, and
that it would not be out of place to send for the
priest. As soon as the sick girl beheld her
mother, she said:--'Well, now, 't is a good thing
thou hast come . . . look at us, we love each
other, we have given each other our
promise.'--'What does she mean, doctor, what does
she mean?'--I turned deathly pale.--'She's
delirious, ma'am,' said I; ''tis the fever heat.'
. . But the girl said: 'Enough of that, enough of
that, thou hast just said something entirely
different to me, and hast accepted a ring from me.
Why dost thou dissimulate? My mother is kind, she
will forgive, she will understand; but I am
dying--I have no object in lying; give me thy
hand.' . . . . I sprang up and fled from the
room. The old woman, of course, guessed how
things stood.

"But I will not weary you, and I must
admit that it is painful to me to recall all this.
My patient died on the following day. The kingdom
of heaven be hers!" added the doctor hastily,
with a sigh. "Before she died, she asked her
family to leave the room, and leave me alone with
her.--'Forgive me,'--she said,--'perhaps I am
culpable in your sight . . . .
.. my illness . . . but, believe me, I have never loved any one more than I
have loved you . . . . do not forget me . .
. . take care of my ring. . . .
.. .'"

The doctor turned away; I took his hand.

"Ekh,"--he said,--"let's talk
of something else, or wouldn't you like to play
preference for a while? Men like us, you know,
ought not to yield to such lofty sentiments. All
we fellows have to think of is: how to keep the
children from squalling, and our wives from
scolding. For since then, you see, I have managed
to contract a legal marriage, as the saying is. .
. Of course . .
. . I took a merchant's daughter: she had seven
thousand rubles of dowry. Her name is Akulina;
just a match for Trifon. She's a vixen, I must
tell you; but, luckily, she sleeps all day. . .
But how about that game of preference?"

We sat down to play preference, for kopek
stakes. Trifon Ivanitch won two rubles and a half
from me--and went away late, greatly elated with
his victory.

____

[Note:] The
doctor's fee, as fixed by law, in Russia, is
absurdly small. Every one, therefore, gives what
he sees fit--certain prices being only tacitly
understood as proper for certain men. The doctor
is supposed to accept what is offered, and it is
contrary to etiquette for him to remonstrate
against the sum.--Translator.